


It's The Same Old Theme

by DarkAlpha67



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anger, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Awesome Peggy Carter, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Colourblind Steve, Desensitisation, Does not follow Endgame to an extent, F/M, Flashback to 1940's, Frustration, Gen, Hatred, Irish catholic Steve mentioned, M/M, Mention of Poverty, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Mourning, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov Knows All, PLEASE READ TAGS, Peggy trained Steve, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pessimistic Steve, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers-centric, Steve is angry at the world, Steve is angry at the world and no one notices, Steve is struggling, Steve tells Tony the truth, The Supersoldier Serum, Tony survives endgame, Wakanda (Marvel), War, War leaves its Mark, ZOMBIE - CRANBERRIES INSPIRED, bucky's return, implied bisexuality, mention of discrimination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 14:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21254774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAlpha67/pseuds/DarkAlpha67
Summary: War.A simple three letter word.A word that appeared innocent, dauntless on paper, but in reality… in reality it was the monster those most sinister, those most ambition, those most protective unleash onto the world, freeing it from its cage to wreak havoc onto the innocent, the weak, the caring, the peaceful.Steve Rogers knew the many faces of War.For years, he battled its soldiers.He was a solider, yes, but late at night, he often found himself wonder why he bothered.





	It's The Same Old Theme

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with various topics such as War, the effects of War, how Steve may perceive War. 
> 
> Please see end notes for more information
> 
> It's mostly all internalized. 
> 
> It was inspired by three versions of Zombie by the Cranberries. I understand the song has a particular message and I may have "misinterpreted" it but that was not my aim. These lyrics inspired the individual scenes and tha'ts why I used them and so please don't take offense.

_Another head hangs lowly_

_ Child is slowly taken _

_And the violence, caused such silence_

_ Who are we mistaken? _

War.

A simple three letter word.

A word that appeared innocent, dauntless on paper, but in reality… in reality it was the monster those most sinister, those most ambition, those most protective unleash onto the world, freeing it from its cage to wreak havoc onto the innocent, the weak, the caring, the peaceful.

Steve Rogers knew the many faces of War.

The War of the World.

The War of the Nation.

The War of the Friends.

The War of the Foe.

The War of the Family.

The War of the Self.

For years, he battled its soldiers.

He busied himself, made it his life, and personified himself as its opposition.

And every time, when the dust settled, when the air cleared, and the metallic scent of blood no longer suffocated him; every single time, he would find another face to battle, another mission to complete, another country to save, another family and friend to bring home alive.

He was a solider, yes, but late at night, he often found himself wonder why he bothered.

He never voiced these thoughts.

After all, he was Captain America.

He was the Shield of the Nation.

The man who stood up for freedom, justice and the fought for the American way.

It took him exactly two months after he was thawed from the ice to realize the enemy who often unleashed the Monster from its cage, was the very organisation he embodied.

*

Natasha was the first to see it.

He didn’t intentionally seek to open himself up, the reveal to her his inner demon. Her silence, her attention and her presence drew out your secrets without your permission and before you knew it you were handing her a hand-written confession of your greatest sins.

They had just returned to the rendevu point, a location Stark had ensured was secure. Covered from head to toe in grime, blood, sweat and grease. He barely paid the others mind as he headed over to the bathroom.

Stark had said to pick and choose and Steve had taken his word for it. Since returning, he accepted the luxury this century had to offer, recalling a time when water, a natural substance, was scarce.

He stood under the scorching spray for hours, eyes squeezed shut as flashes of today’s War replayed in his mind. He saw the bloodied bodies he’d been too late to save, he heard the screams for help he’d been too far away to pick up, receiving only their echoes. He felt the anger course through his veins, felt the hatred burn within. He knew where it came from, he knew who he aimed it at.

He aimed it at everyone. At Fury for not leaving the Tesseract where it belonged, at Thor for his brother’s actions, at Loki for being selfish, and cruel, and Natasha and Tony and Bruce and everyone.

The anger he knew would fade.

It was irrational, and it reared its demonic head only in times like this.

Back when his identity has Steve had been stripped away, it had been Peggy who had brought him back. She’d take him away from everything, lead him to a secure spot and together, they would train.

Back when he was Captain America, Steve’s righteous anger at the world around him, the world that took his father from him before Steve had ever met him, who took the kindness and goodness his ma had to offer only to repay her with Tuberculosis. The world that placed him in a body like his, with the desire for men and women alike in a time when death would have been his punishment for such inclinations.

When the steam became too much, the air in his body thin, leaving him lightheaded, Steve stumbled out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and headed out. The cool air kissed his bare skin, washing away the burning sensation, blowing away the dizziness. There was a dufflebag waiting on his bed and when he looked inside, he saw it contained his clothes.

Too exhausted and distracted to bother asking for answers, he dried himself off and covered his body in clothes that clung to his skin uncomfortably. He felt the bruises, his torn flesh knit itself together, the mending process no longer as painful as it once was.

He recalled having to hold Bucky’s hand as Jones set his leg, biting down on the straps of a dirty leather belt, and then, as hours passed, he waited in mind-numbing pain as the serum knitted his broken body back together, Bucky’s hand in his, Bucky’s lips inches from his ears, talking about random events that always started with “hey, remember that time…”.

He was just placing his phone on charge when he heard a knock on the door.

“Come in.” His voice was deeper and gruffer from disuse.

Turning a bit, Steve waited, watching with a vigilant gaze as Natasha, dressed in black sleeping pants, a black tank top, her ruby red locks still damp from the shower hanging down her clear face. He took in the contrast of her porcelain skin against the shadowed clothes and red halo.

He loved noticing these things now. Knowing that, had things gone differently, he might never had known the exact shade of Peggy’s lipstick or the alluring blend storm grey and winter blue of Bucky’s eyes.

“Hey, you doing okay?” She asked, stepping in just a bit to lean against the doorframe, her tiny hand wrapped around the knob to block his view of the outside world, or maybe, to hide him from the outside world.

“I’m fine.” Came the immediate, militant response.

There was a pause. Her green eyes assessed him. “Bruce is making food for everyone. There is a plate for you.”

Steve shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat, Steve.” He turned to face her completely. “War is war, Ma’am. It would be idiotic for me to starve myself every time there is a one.”

Steve regret the words the moment they passed his mouth. He knew it wasn’t something Captain America would say, it wasn’t something a solider would say but the angry possesses by Steve Rogers won out in the end.

“I’ll get some shut eye and then eat, later.” He offered to her in hopes that she would accepting his silent request to forget those last spoken words.

There was a heavy pause. It sunk down on them like a wet blanket, promising nothing but discomfort and suffocation. His hand twitched, his shoulder moved as if to brush against a presence he’d been seeking for since he’d opened his eyes, looking to the left and found the space beside him empty.

“Okay.” Natasha responded coolly. With a nod of solidarity, she stepped back and closed the door, locking him in his preferred isolation.

He listened to the gentle pads of her feet until she was no more, before he turned, body sinking down until his ass landed on a too soft mattress. He leaned back, biting back a wince when his movement tugged at his healing wounds.

Sighing, Steve lifted a hand and covered his eyes. Thinking, he conjured up the voice of ma.

_“Oh, Stevie, it’s gonna be all right. Close your eyes, take deep slow breathes and then I promise when you open them again, it will be like nothing happened.”_

He lifted his hand and blinked, his heart sinking when an unfamiliar ceiling, with no dark patches of mold, no wet stains from the leaking toilet in the upstairs neighbors that was never fixable. An anvil lowered itself down onto his chest, resting there, taking away his breath and his will to breathe with each passing second.

_ “C’mon, punk. Ass up. We ain’t gonna wait for death to drop by.” _

With Bucky’s voice encouraging him, Steve lifted himself up off the bed, stripped it of its sheets and pillows. Methodically, he spread the sheets on the carpeted floor, one to sleep on and the other to cover him with. Then he placed a pillow by the established head of the “bed” and another beside him, vertical.

As he laid down on the floor, he sighed, wiggling back until the second pillow pressed against his back. He pretended he felt the inhalations and exhalations of the back pressed against his, pretended he was somewhere else, somewhere familiar, somewhere… less lonely.

Closing his eyes, Steve counted until ten and then, like a solider trained for battle, he shut his body off and fell asleep.

*

_ Another mother’s breaking_

_ Heart is taking over _

_When the violence causes silence _

_We must be mistaken_

Steve was there the day Bucky told his parents about his draft.

He recalled Winnie pressing a hand to her mouth. He recalled Becca demanding to see the letter for herself, disbelief clear in his icy blue eyes so much like her brothers. He remembered holding Lizzie as she cried, confused yet understanding, a paradox only a child of war can experience.

George had hugged Bucky.

Winnie refused to let him go, and Bucky was left seated between his mom and sister, each arm wrapped around them both, holding onto them.

He vowed to the see them again, spoke about the tales he would bring with. No one believed him but everyone knew Bucky needed their belief, their belief that he would return home, that they would see him once again.

He would not be another Jerome.

He would not be another Michael.

He would be the exception.

Hours passed, voices became hoarse, eyes were left raw and minds were drained.

Together, George, Steve and Bucky led the Barnes women to their respective rooms. Becca had always roomed with Lizzie, Bucky taking the living room or the floor whenever he stayed over which was rarer now more than ever.

With a kiss to each of their foreheads, Bucky and Steve followed George Barnes out to the sitting area.

“Uh, I think –“ Bucky’s once sleeked-back hair was ruffled, with greasy strands handing down his forehead stiffly. “I think its best I stay the night.”

He looked to George, who nodded, then to Steve who only managed a gentle tug of the lips.

Neither men spoke that night. When George finally retired to his room, he drew Bucky into a tight hug, clapped him on the back only once before he turned and walked away. He was a strong man, Mr. Barnes. Steve recalled wondering if his father would treat him as Bucky’s dad did Bucky.

Bucky embodied the ideal of a man, whereas Steve attempted to. His caring nature, and the stubborn temperament he inherited from his mother and, though he often found himself thinking of the father he never had, he would never wish for those traits to be traded in for something else.

Left alone, Steve turned to Bucky in the darkened house. He leaned back into the worn out couch, close as always with their thighs pressed tightly together.

“You gonna be okay?” Bucky asked.

“Of course, Buck.”

Bucky nodded.

A moment passed.

“You’ll look out for them, right?”

Steve looked to Bucky. In the lightless room, the glimmer of tears in Bucky’s eyes illuminated those colourless orbs. He wished he could see better, wished he find the pencils that shaded Bucky’s eyes that dames were always describing as Ice Blue.

Swallowing, Steve nodded. “Yeah, Buck, I’ll make sure they’re okay.” He said, carefully.

Too distracted to question Steve’s reply, Bucky nodded and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. Steve mirrored his position and for a moment it was just them, alone in the dark, offering their present, their silence support.

It was there, in the darkness of Bucky’s house, with the sadness hovering over them all, enticing despair and grief for a future set in stone; it was in that house than Steve felt Bucky’s fingers graze his hand, allowed himself the moment to turn his palm, fingers parting to welcome in Bucky’s.

*

_ But you see, it’s not me_

_ It’s not my family _

_In your head, in your head, they are fighting _

_With their tanks and their bombs _

_And their bombs and their guns_

_ In your head, in your head, they are cryin’ _

Steve was no stranger to discrimination.

As an Irish Catholic, whose mother was an immigrant, he had been on the receiving end of prejudice, bigotry, had borne witness to the horror of hatred, heard the beatings, attempted to stop them a few times only to have people spit it at him, presuming things about him based on his physic, things he knew deep within was true.

The term was ‘de-sensitized’, Clint had told him.

He supposed there was some truth in that statement. When Tony spoke of the Wars that continued on long after his ‘death’, of the hatred that raged on and triumphed over the innocent, he nodded and contributed nothing other than “if we can stop it, then we should”.

The Avenger’s campaigned for equality.

They fought for freedom.

They lost most of those battled; Wars that required words and petitions, that required support and acceptance. Blood and violence had been what Captain America had been created to inflict.

Few understood, but slowly and surely they were made to understand.

“Captain Rogers, what are your opinions of legalizing gay marriage?”

“Captain Rogers, what are your opinions on the President?”

“Captain Rogers, why are not helping our troops overseas?”

And then, the comment that shattered the illusion of Captain Steve Rogers.

“So, Cap, how are you enjoying the world? Bet it’s better than before, right?” Tony had said, taking a sip of his healthy green sludge.

Steve, who had just returned from another grueling meeting with SHIELD, with Clint and Natasha a few steps behind, shrugged helplessly.

“It’s about as shit as it was back then.” He walked past Tony, opening the fridge to pull out a few bottles of water.

“Excuse me?”

Steve closed the door with a gentle thud and then turned to face the engineer with an exhausted expression. “The world may have changed for you, but the problems from the past have just been traded in for a different cause.”

He ignored the eyes on him. He ignored the tension in his shoulders, knowing that in a few hours, it will all be exercised out of him.

As his wrapped fists slummed into the enhanced punch bag, each punch, each kick channeling the anger, hatred, frustration he had been forced to shovel down deep within, away from public eyes and opinionated minds.

“Hey.”

He turned, panting, looking over his shoulder with burning eyes.

“Need a partner?”

He wished she’d been someone else.

He wished she’d had dark hair, brown eyes and a gentle smile.

Nodding, Steve moved over to the sparring mat, unwrapping his hands as Natasha got ready, kicking off her sneakers and tying up her hair.

“You know…” She said, turning around to face him. “The Wars may have been lost, but the victory in battle still counts.”

Steve allowed some of his resentment to bleed through. “Except at the end of the day, the War remains and those who’d won the battle become too old to fight.”

“But people still keeping fighting.”

Steve swallowed down his bitter words, wanting Natasha to know how sick that sentiment made him. For years, those he’d loved, those he’d fight with had given their lives for a War that to this day continued to destroy the very world they’d been trying to save.

His friends, his family, his loved ones.

They’d all died and for what? To pass on the blood, the horror, the bullets and the pain to the next generation, so that they could do the same thing?

“Your victories aren’t meaningless, Rogers.”

“Yeah?” He glared at her, stepping closer. “Tell that to the millions of people who had lost someone because of someone else’s War.”

He attacked and she deflected.

And the conversation ended.

But the words remained spoken, never to be taken back, never to be forgotten.

*

_ It’s the same old theme _

_In two thousand eight-teen_

_ In your head, in your head, they’re still fightin’_

_ With their tanks, and their bombs _

_And their guns, and their drones, _

_In your head, in your head, they are dyin’ _

“Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

“She’s gone, Steve.”

“He’s my friend, Tony.”

“So was I.”

“I know, that’s why I am coming to you with this. Please… He didn’t do it. It wasn’t him.”

“I don’t know if I’m worth this, Steve.”

“You are.”

*

“Steve?”

He turned around, heart in his throat. The years had not been kind to him, with his body suit stripped of its colours, with his stony features obscured by facial hair and his clean cut appearance no longer necessary, Steve knew he looked older, more wore out.

Bucky stepped closer to him, his hair drawn away from his face, pulled back into a half-top bun. The Wakanda air smelt sweet, fresh, unspoiled by the War of others. His black metal arm blended with his uniform, a mirror of his old 1940’s military uniform, the golden streaks embedded in the mechanics beautiful and a testament to the man who wore it.

A man shattered and cracked apart by Wars, only to be mended back together by the golden strength of his inner will to live, to remain good and kind, and to remain loyal to those who needed him.

However, their colorless appearance echoed the vibrancy of life they had both lost.

“You ready?” Bucky asked, stepping up to stand before him.

Steve looked up at the clear sky, deceitful in her peacefully display. Exhaling, Steve met Bucky’s clear grey-blue eyes.

Once again, War had taken from them what they’d been fighting for, for all these years. Once again, they were expected to fight in battle, for a War that was bigger than them, for a War an unknown entity had unleashed from its cage, with the purpose of destroying.

“It never stops, does it?”

A heartbroken expression flashed across Bucky’s face. The man did not answer him. Instead, he lifted his hand, the heat of his palm seeping into Steve’s cheek. Leaning in, Bucky pressed the gentlest of kisses on his despondent lips. Steve returned the silent promise, the wordless comfort.

The kiss was short.

“We’ll make it out of this, Steve.”

*

War destroyed and cared not for the lives it took.

As he held onto Bucky, tears running down his cheeks after years of not seeing him, the sound of Morgan laughing as Tony spun her around a juxtaposition to the longing and sorrow set deep in their souls, never to be forgotten, never to fade.

He cried for all that was lost, knowing no matter what…

The War may had been won.

But another was sure to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals some themes of War, namely how Steve might deal about War in general. It deals with PTSD, it deals with anger mainly toward the world.
> 
> Steve does have PTSD, however never explicitly stated. It is however manifested. 
> 
> Versions of Zombie are by
> 
> Cranberries  
Frawley  
Bad Wolves


End file.
